The Great Resolution
by Catherine Spark
Summary: Sorry for the pretentious title - it's just for clarity.  My theory as to how the cliffhanger is resolved.  May extend or this might be it.  Some swearing.


_**WHERE WE LEFT THEM:**__** John squatting against a changing cubicle. Sherlock standing opposite Moriarty at the poolside, pointing the gun at the winking bomb lying on the floor. And at least six lasers, most of them trained on Sherlock and John.**_

-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The eye contact between Sherlock and Moriarty was broken momentarily by John, who stood up slowly and moved towards the bomb. Moriarty made a step towards him, face contorting in rage.

"Move and I shoot," Sherlock said sharply.

"You wouldn't dare," snarled Moriarty.

"Want to risk it?" Sherlock's voice was so dangerously soft and menacing that even Moriarty fell silent and still. "John, do you trust me?" John paused and slightly inclined his head. "Then do exactly as I say. Go over to the bomb and put it on again. Move very, very slowly and be very, very careful."

After a millisecond's hesitation, John crept forward. Sherlock kept the gun trained on the bomb.

His hands shook as he strapped it into place. By the time he had finished he was looking down the barrel of Sherlock's gun. Again Sherlock seemed to falter, and John urged him on in blind faith, with another mute nod.

"John, walk over and stand next to me." John seemed to be moving automatically as he crossed the room. Sherlock followed him with the gun. When John reached him it seemed that his legs would give way again and Sherlock, with no regard for his own safety, grasped John's arm and held him up. With a great rush of hope John realised what Sherlock was thinking.

Moriarty had apparently not been expecting this development. Sherlock now pointed the gun at Moriarty and spoke in a cold, dead, chilling voice of triumph. "Three options for you," he said. "First option: Leave us and walk out that door and take your snipers with you. You're not the only one who reads my blog – Mycroft will know I'm here. The police are probably surrounding this building as we speak. But I know you wouldn't just walk out, even if you could go free. We don't run, you and me. We stay and fight."

Moriarty swallowed, his Adam's apple pulsing as he did so. "Second option: Your snipers shoot. We both know how powerful that bomb is."

"And the third?"

"You can do nothing. And I'll shoot you. But there's a catch because you were right – it's not quite true that I don't have a heart. I might be nice and shoot only to injure."

Moriarty gazed at Sherlock, and then his head rose slightly as realisation and admiration showed on his face. "Oh I see," he crooned. "Another game."

"_The_ game. The Great Game," Sherlock whispered. "Now. Choose. Certain capture, certain death or a chance to escape with injuries."

There was a pause. "You know," said Moriarty slowly, "I could just kill us all. Do you _really _want to risk that?"

"Ah, but you wouldn't do that. You've spent thirty million quid and more to cover your tracks. A man who is ready to die or be captured wouldn't be that careful." Sherlock then raised his voice, addressing the whole room now: "And your snipers are inside the building this time, not shooting from outside. This time if they shoot they'll kill themselves too."

John thought he saw a tiny shadow of fear cross Moriarty's granite features, but a second later the mask of diabolical calm fell over it again like a curtain. "I'll count down from five," Sherlock said calmly. "If you've done nothing by the time I've counted down, I _will_ shoot." He waited for a couple of seconds.

"Five." Moriarty's features began working as he calculated the outcome of every possible option.

"Four." Moriarty glanced at John and his mouth twitched in a half smile.

"Three." Moriarty started to back away but Sherlock kept the gun trained on him.

"Two." Moriarty stopped backing away.

"One." Moriarty spread his hands and raised his eyebrows.

And Sherlock fired.

The bullet hit him in the shoulder, and Sherlock and John briefly saw a red rose blooming on his shattered collarbone, before he staggered and fell backwards into the pool. The water turned red. Moriarty tried to swim to a ladder but floundered. He tried to heave himself out of the water but pain and weakness prevented him from doing so. Sherlock stood over Moriarty at the edge of the pool. "A wound needs air to clot," he told him. "If you don't get out of there soon you'll bleed out, slip under the water and drown."

Moriarty stared up at Sherlock through clouded eyes. Sherlock's face was a mask of pure loathing and disgust. "I hope you suffer like all your victims did," He hissed.

Then together John and Sherlock backed towards the pool door. As they stood in the doorway, Sherlock first glanced behind him and then turned to John. "Take the bomb off now – I've got us covered." John shrugged it off and laid it carefully on the floor at their feet. Sherlock kept the gun trained on it and together they backed out of the swimming pool, then turned and ran through the reception and out…straight into the arms of Mycroft (in the case of Sherlock) and Lestrade (in the case of John).

Lestrade simply called for a shock blanket, wrapped it round John and helped him to an ambulance, where he sat and sipped a mug of very, very, _very_ sweet tea. As for Sherlock, his brother was shaking him and shouting at him. "You idiot! You imbecile! You bloody, bloody little fool!"

"We're not safe yet Mycroft, there's a bomb in there," Sherlock cut in urgently, eyes piercing Mycroft's. "It's primed to explode and it's strong enough to take down a house. There are at least six snipers in there and a man who needs to go to the highest security prison there is and never leave there alive. He's bleeding out in the pool as we speak."

Mycroft relayed this to Lestrade who gave instructions to the police to cut off all exits and wait for the bomb disposal squad. Then he turned his attention back to his brother. "You could have died," he said, and suddenly that realisation hit him fully. His mouth contorted for a second and he stopped speaking abruptly. Then, when he had collected himself: "Anthea contacted me at five to midnight. By the time we got here it was already two minutes past."

"The plans…"

"I don't give a fuck about the plans, Sherlock. I thought…" he swallowed. "I thought we were too late." By this time the bomb disposal squad had arrived, and they and several policemen entered the building. Paramedics began preparing a stretcher for Moriarty. "It's over…" Sherlock breathed, closed his eyes and passed his hands over his face.

It began to rain slightly. A minute later several policemen came out, each with a handcuffed charge, presumably the snipers.

One of the policemen said something to Lestrade, and Sherlock saw Lestrade turn away in sheer frustration and misery. No, no, no! Things _couldn't _fall apart at the last second! Ignoring Mycroft's protests he pushed forward and grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders. "Is it Moriarty?" he asked, his breathing ragged and his voice shaking. "He _was_ there. _Did you get him?_"

Lestrade looked past Sherlock and down, and shook his head silently. Donovan approached, eyeing Sherlock derisively. "We've tried all the exits. There's a trail of blood and water but it runs out…"

"It runs out? It _can't _run out. I'm going in myself…" but Lestrade and a paramedic caught hold of him as he started forward. He gave a bitter snarl and tried to shake them off, but found himself suddenly weak and shivery, and he had not the strength to resist as they wrapped a shock blanket around him and led him to the ambulance.

"I lost him." Sherlock sat catatonic beside John.

"You can't always win, Sherlock," John told him. "We've got his henchmen and he's on the run now. That's something."

"Oh he'll get more," Sherlock replied bitterly. "This isn't the end. Moriarty is the organiser of all that is undercover and nearly half that is criminal. There'll be payback, you'll see. Maybe in a day, maybe in a year, but there'll be payback."

"So…what do we do now?"

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes wide, and spoke with searing intensity. "We bide our time. We watch our backs. We cast our nets and we close in on him over time," he whispered. "Then we run. We pack our things and we use all our wits and we run across the continent. Will you come with me?"

John looked at Sherlock, frightened, defeated and vulnerable, and nodded. "And what happens if we fail again?" Sherlock's eyes seemed to look through him and into another place, and there was no bravery or exhilaration in his voice when next he spoke.

"Something bad," he said simply.


End file.
